Pleasure
by Ilarianto
Summary: Matheus Solomon is not a murderer , he doesn't work for the Cabal, he is not looking for Red and Liz. Matheus is a business man, rich and brash, yet a psychopath that reveals even in that intimate act to be mentally unstable


Pleasure

Matheus Solomon is not a murderess of Cabal, he is not looking for Red and Liz.  
Matheus is a business man, rich and brash, yet a psychopath that reveals even in that intimate act to be mentally unstable

Matheus's lying on his Oriental rug, each strand individually dyed and hand-sewn, staring up at the ceiling while the strands of an intermezzo by Vivaldi work their way through his living room. The receiver is by Harmon/Kardon, the speakers by Bose, and the sound truly does seem as if it's coming from every possible direction. He had the speakers installed by a team of acoustic professionals, and it took four hours to get everything just right. He tipped them very handsomely; it was one of the few times he's ever had the installers of one of his systems willing to stay until he was completely satisfied with his arrangment.

He took off his Armani suit and his Calvin Klein boxer-briefs and hung them up carefully in his custom-built cedar closet before coming back to the kitchen for a bottle of his Dom Perignon , and now that he's on the floor, he's running fingertips up and down the center of his chest, trying to imagine what he'll be doing in an hour.

A few thoughts flash briefly through his head as he trail his fingertips down over the rippled muscles of his abdomen. He puts so much time and effort into these muscles; he clenches them a bit just to feel them tighten under his hand. Nice. Precisely defined. Perfect.

He thinks about calling up the escort service he's employed on occasion. He could have someone sent up. Some blonde with beautiful lips and a slinky black dress, that just makes it that much trashier and leaves him completely able to rip the thing off her without any particular feelings of regret.

But the truth is, he's really not in the mood for hired pussy tonight. He's been having a rough day, too many things going wrong, blue chips down, some of the new technology stocks he's been having his broker watch are up, and he has to remind myself to tell his broker to be ready to shortsell about thirteen different things - there's a downturn coming, and he can make a fortune off it if his broker's smart enough to get him in at the right time.

So no, not hired pussy. He's better off here on the floor, Oriental rug scratching against his back, Vivaldi on his stereo, hand around his own cock, because as good as any girl - whore - girl is, she's not gonna know what the fuck to do with it, really. Doesn't know the first thing about it, because she's never had that sensation of instant feedback all men are gifted with.

But his hand's on his own cock right now, and it does feel good. It'd feel better with some Astroglide slicking up his palm, but he's not about to keep lube in his home for some nosy bitch to find while she's snooping through his drawers. Too many questions he wouldn't feel like answering, and then he'd probably have to get out the ropes and pretend it's all about kink and not about masturbation, and _then_ he'd probably end up with a rather large mess to clean up, and he doesn't want to be _forced_ into that kind of decision. No.

So he'll settle for the rough, inelegant slide of hand against cock, and as his hand speeds up to the point where the sounds are echoing in the room and his breath is getting shallow he thinks about the splash of blood from the whore he knifed last week and wonder if he has time to pick someone up off the street and maybe just beat him to death in an alley and hear the crunch of glass under his feet as he walks away...

...and Geez... His hips come off the rug as he comes, and he grips his cock tighter, getting his come to shoot out all the way up his chest, not quite to his chin, but damn close. he has got a hell of a range on it, and he'd like to see that damn beautiful girl beat _that_.

And mmmm... we do tell girls that swallowing's good for the skin, good for the sheen of one's hair. He wonders. He knows semen has approximately fourteen calories to an ejaculation, probably more in his case due to the sheer volume involved, and that it's mostly water, a little protein. Worth a taste.

Hm. Not bad. There is something rather decadent about lying on one's floor licking one's own come off one's fingers, while idly thinking about tomorrow's meeting with the Apple account and wondering what one's secretary's going to be wearing.

Vivaldi's getting loud. He should get up and turn the stereo down; we're reaching decibel levels where we start to see the color of the sound bleed a bit.

He should get up. Just a few more moments' rest. He just needs to rest.


End file.
